


a rare gesture

by foundCarcosa



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 01:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10583226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: A very brief glimpse into a moment in time for two neurodivergent men with different needs but alike desire.





	

John feels nothing. He thinks about what being dead would feel like, and he imagines it feels something like this – a central nervous system sluggish and apathetic to all but the most jarring of stimuli, a body that barely responds to its own continued existence. The world moves on around him, people pressing in on all sides as they go about their hurried business, but John doesn’t feel them. Strike a match and set him alight, and he’d turn a fan on and continue working.

Harold feels everything. He swaddles his jittery body in bespoke clothing – no ragged seams, no tags, no cuff too snug or waistcoat too loose. Skin-to-skin contact is a riot of impressions, all of them too loud and riotous to be comfortable. People ask him about the pain in his back, and he stares at them incredulously, because when everything from the needling water streaming from the showerhead to a gust of frigid wind to the blast of scalding heat from a subway-platform vent could send his nerves into a sudden frenzy, what was one constant and steady ache?

It is not easy, but they are accustomed, and they never really think of it.

In a rare gesture, John squeezes Harold’s hand in passing, and Harold stills, his fingers curling in on his palm, feeling the rough press of callouses and the steady firmness of trained muscles, feeling John’s presence _(a looming friendly shadow at Harold’s right shoulder, a dark weight that did not overpower, a calm sea waiting to be whipped into a tempest but preferring to lap gently at the shore at Harold’s feet)_ and John’s distance, a distance that John wasn’t sure he could close. Harold’s hand curls into a fist, tightly, letting the impressions burn into him, afraid but still _wanting._

In a rare gesture, John squeezes Harold’s hand in passing, and John continues about his business, but after a moment he is dimly aware of his fingertips rubbing absently against the heel of his palm, fingernails scraping the center of his palm, seeking. He looks down at his hand, splays the fingers out as if to stop them, still their seeking, but the desire remains. He imagines Harold’s fingers pressing insistently into him until he feels them, until the thrill of Harold’s touch awakens his sluggish, dead body and reminds him of what it was like to _want._

In an even rarer gesture, Harold removes his gloves, sets them aside, and grips John’s hands in his own, and squeezes, and holds John’s surprised gaze until his eyes water from the rush of input and the helplessly contradictory desire for more of it. John curls his fingers around the small, trembling hands and wonders if he’s only imagining the warmth spreading outward from his unsteady heart because he wants so desperately to feel it again.

 _I don’t think I can give you what you ask for,_ their minds try to say, but their bodies speak louder.


End file.
